Back at the fallen tower…

  Dmitry charged into the last knot of resistance, his skeletal mount obeying without hesitation. Bone hooves struck dirt and flesh alike, its silence more terrifying than any war cry. He didn’t care that they were warriors, hardened and desperate.

  And was he just a mage?

  No.

  He was a hero. Better.

  “Die,” he snarled, hurling a fireball point-blank into the chest of an armored soldier.

  The warrior swung too slow. Steel met flame. The blade never reached him. The man was engulfed, screaming for half a heartbeat before collapsing into blackened ash.

  Dmitry’s eyes swept the battlefield, calculating.

  The Vainqueurs Imbattables rode like wolves among sheep, tight formations, their skeletal mounts weaving through the chaos with surgical grace. Their lances struck with bone-cracking force, skewering enemies through breastplate and back. One rider hooked a defender off his feet mid-turn; another impaled two at once with a sweeping strike. It was a hunt, not a battle.

  Clean. Efficient.

  They were beyond the tower now, its rubble still smoldering behind them. What remained of this part of the enemy flank had buckled, leaving only scattered pockets of resistance clinging to a doomed defense.

  The primary defense was still a threat. Her. Lisa. His scouts had warned him. The ruse hadn’t crippled her force as intended. Casualties were minimal. Her line still held.

  “Tch,” Dmitry clicked his tongue, irritated but unsurprised. He never trusted others to deliver killing blows. Not when it was only a token force.

  Now he had a choice. Lisa was stubborn, predictably so. He could use that.

  His eyes narrowed. “Ian,” he called, not turning. “Come.” The boy scrambled closer, half-trot, half-drag.

  “You now have a role to play,” Dmitry said, turning to face Ian. “An easy one.”

  He pointed toward the hills ahead, where scattered rogues clung to the shadows. “We’ve broken through. The reserves are gone. Between you and that wall? Nothing but stragglers.”

  He yanked the reins, drawing his skeletal steed nose-to-nose with Ian’s mount. Close enough to smell the nervous sweat. “Do not screw this up,” he growled. “You’ll take the bulk of our riders and hit them. Hard. Fast. Overwhelm them. Do you understand?”

  Ian blinked, eyes darting like a cornered animal’s. Looking for an exit that didn’t exist. Dmitry leaned in, voice sharp as broken glass. “Do you understand?”

  “Why… me?” Ian asked, small and shaky. Too small.

  Dmitry’s fury cracked like a whip. “Grow some balls! You asked for this. You begged for it. And now? Now you’re an asset.” He jabbed a finger into Ian’s chest. “She knows you’re here. She’ll over-commit to stop you. We use that weakness and gut her with it.”

  Ian swallowed. “And you?” Dmitry let out a long, pained sigh, more disappointed than angry now. “I mean… why not you?” Ian pressed. “Wouldn’t you win?”

  “Fool!” Dmitry barked, flinging a small fireball that singed the air beside Ian’s helmet. “Lisa is aiming for me,” he said coldly. “I’ll take the elites of the Vainqueurs and meet her.”

  Ian’s mouth opened, gears finally grinding. “You… you’ll sacrifice yourself?”

  Dmitry nearly smiled. If only Ian weren’t so painfully slow. “Look, Ian,” he said, voice leveling out into something almost… instructional. “If I trusted you with the boardroom, you need to understand one thing: sometimes, delaying is more profitable than fighting.”

  He waited, watched the boy’s brow furrow.

  “If your competitor has a better product,” Dmitry continued, “do you fight back with something better?”

  Ian nodded quickly.

  Another fireball zipped past his ear. “No, you imbecile! Don’t waste resources! You delay them. You tie them up in lawsuits, in cease-and-desist letters, in patent trolling. You stall them until you are the market leader, until it’s too late to stop you.”

  He pointed past Ian, toward the breach. “This is your lawsuit. Now go.”

  Then Dmitry turned without waiting for a reply, his voice rising in a simple command, “Elites—with me!”

  Dmitry glanced back toward Ian. The boy rode wide, skirting Lisa’s direct path. Avoiding the confrontation. Just as Dmitry intended. Because even pawns could serve, if placed right.

  He turned his gaze forward again, toward the storm on the horizon. Toward the actual fight. What he said earlier was true: he didn’t need to win here. His pride weighed nothing compared to what he could do with it.

  Good commanders used the pieces they were given.

  Great commanders forged their own pieces.

  And the best?

  They cheated.

  Dmitry’s eyes dropped for a moment to the edge of his vision, his [Hero] ability, still grayed out. Still locked by some twisted trigger, he hadn’t quite satisfied.

  But soon. It had to be soon.

  And if not? Then he’d give them something else to believe in.

  He looked to his side, his elites, the Vainqueurs Imbattables. The men he’d handpicked. The blades he’d sharpened.

  They deserved a reminder.

  He stood high in his stirrups and let his voice cut across the wind like a scythe. “Vainqueurs Imbattables!” he bellowed. “How was today’s hunt?”

  A wave of cheers answered him, bone-chilling, gleeful, unhinged.

  He smiled.

  “Exactly,” he roared. “We’ve already feasted. We’ve earned more XP today than a dozen campaigns could promise. But now…”

  He pointed toward the horizon.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Lisa’s army.

  “…Now we face a force at four-to-one, maybe more.” The cheers dulled. Faces shifted. Fear trickled in like a crack beneath the dam.

  So Dmitry laughed, loud, clear, mad.

  “Yes! Let them think they’ll defeat us. Let them believe this is the end. But remember the tower. Just breaching it gave us a level’s worth of XP.”

  He leaned forward, riding past his front line, voice like thunder. “This world rewards us not for playing safe, but for playing hard! So what if we die? So what if we fall?”

  He drew his sword and raised it high, flames licking along its edge.

  “We will respawn! Stronger! Richer! Hungrier!”

  The Vainqueurs howled.

  “Today,” Dmitry shouted, “we fight not to survive, but to be remembered. Let them see what it means to face wolves. Let them know that the Vainqueurs’ Imbattables do not die quietly!”

  He turned, flame trailing behind him like a battle standard, and pointed toward the mass of enemies waiting ahead.

  “Charge!”

  And charge, and they did. Blades out, mounts screaming, doom in their wake, straight toward Lisa’s force, cresting the hill like a tidal wall of steel.

  “Dmitry!” she shouted, voice clear even over the thunder of hooves. Flame gathered in her palm, coiling up her staff like a serpent awakening.

  She wore a robe of living flame, red and gold, trailing sparks with every stride. The staff in her grip burned brighter than her fury, and her eyes…

  Fierce. Focused. Alive!

  Defiant.

  He almost smiled. If he hadn’t already promised Katherine his hand, he might’ve entertained the thought. Played a little. Broken her slowly. With care.

  But his word was holy.

  “A man must always deliver what he promises, and have one woman waiting for him at home,” his father used to say. Mentor, tyrant, role model.

  Dmitry never forgot.

  He remembered. And he laughed, wild, triumphant. “Foolish girl,” he called out. “Wishing to die again? Why not join the winning side?”

  But she didn’t answer. They both raised their staves. They both cast.

  Flames surged, his and hers, twin infernos ripping toward each other like starved beasts. They collided in midair with a soundless detonation; the world dimming for a breath as light consumed everything.

  For a heartbeat, the magic warred.

  Her fire was wild, furious, like a forest set alight. Defiant. But his…

  Dmitry’s was pure refinement. Condensed heat. Controlled annihilation. A blade of plasma dressed in fire.

  The equilibrium shattered.

  His spell tore through hers, slicing down the center of the firestorm, reducing it to sputtering embers. The core of his magic, white-hot, almost colorless, ripped forward, unstoppable.

  It hit her front lines like judgment.

  A row of soldiers vanished in a wave of fire, their screams short-lived as magic engulfed armor, skin, and bone. The blast carved a trench into the earth itself, molten cracks sputtering outward. Those not burned alive stumbled back, screaming, half-blind and covered in ash.

  Lisa held her ground, but her formation buckled.

  Dmitry’s eyes gleamed. “Let this be the start,” he muttered, raising his staff again.

  “Now burn, all of you.”

  —

  At the same time…

  Ian was worried.

  Charging toward the wall had sounded simple enough when Dmitry said it. Just push forward, clean up, make a name for himself.

  Simple task, right?

  Wrong.

  The terrain changed the moment they crested the first ridge, no longer the open plains of war, but uneven, rocky slopes broken by dry gullies and thorn-choked dips.

  The kind of place that looked empty… until it wasn’t.

  The first pit opened under a [Doom Rider] with a sickening crunch. Horse and rider vanished mid-gallop, swallowed by a concealed spike trap lined with rusted metal and alchemical filth. Screams followed, gurgling and sharp.

  Ian jerked his reins. “Tighten formation! Eyes on the ground!”

  It didn’t help.

  A snare snapped around a rider’s ankle, yanking him from the saddle like a rabbit caught in wire. Another stepped on what looked like a rock, until it exploded with a flash of green flame, sending two more to the dirt, coughing and writhing.

  Chaos rippled through the ranks.

  “Scamantha,” Ian muttered, heart pounding. He remembered the name, one of Charlie’s weird rogue friends. From reports, she had a sharp tongue. Sharper traps. “She’s here. Of course she’s here.”

  From the ridgeline, arrows and spells rained down, minor, but constant. Hit-and-run attacks. Shadows moved just out of reach, blades flashing as they struck from behind, cut down a rider, and vanished before anyone could retaliate.

  Ian’s forces slowed to a crawl. Every ten steps brought another surprise. Another casualty. The unit wasn’t collapsing, but it was unraveling at the edges. Death by a thousand distractions.

  “Hold position!” he shouted. “Shields up! Spear line forward! MOVE LIKE YOU’RE SMART!”

  He wasn’t sure if they listened. He wasn’t sure if he listened. He just kept going.

  Another rogue lunged from the underbrush, blade glinting, Ian parried on instinct, his short sword clashing with the attacker’s, the force jarring his arm. His return swing cut across the rogue’s chest, sending her tumbling back into the grass.

  One down.

  Dozens to go.

  He was panting now, sweat trickling behind his armor. His riders were scattered, disoriented, forming tight little clusters instead of a proper charge line.

  He could feel the pressure mounting.

  The wall, his target, still loomed ahead, distant and untouched. His charge was supposed to be a swift strike. Instead, it had become a slog. A grind. Like dragging a sword through wet sand.

  Another explosion, this one off to the left, lighting up the ridge with a purple haze.

  Ian gritted his teeth. “We keep moving,” he growled, more to himself than anyone else. “We push through.”

  One of the rogues tried to dart past. Ian lashed out with his sword and caught her in the ribs, sending her sprawling. “Not this time.”

  They were winning. Slowly. Killing the harassers. Clearing the traps. Bit by bit. But the cost was rising. The clean charge was gone, and ahead, the wall still waited.A

  The ridge narrowed. Too quiet. Ian didn’t trust it. Not anymore.

  He tightened his grip on the reins, sword raised as he pressed forward, boots clinking in rhythm with the surviving riders around him. They’d finally cleared the bulk of the traps, at least the obvious ones.

  The rogues had been whittled down one by one, left to die in the brambles they’d once used as cover.

  And then click. The ground beneath him hummed. His eyes widened. “No!”

  A rune flared beneath his mount, bright red and furious. An arcane pulse surged upward, a concussive blast tossing him from the saddle like a bug report. He slammed into the dirt, ears ringing, the breath knocked clean from his lungs.

  Pain screamed through his side. He rolled, coughed, barely dodged a snare that snapped shut inches from his face. It would’ve taken his head off.

  Someone pulled him to his feet while healing him, one of Dmitry’s lieutenants, and Ian coughed out, “Thanks,” before stumbling back into position. The final rogue died ten seconds later, run through by a Vainqueur spear. The hillside quieted.

  Nothing left but smoke, groans, and scorched earth.

  Then a slow clap echoed off the rocks. “Ohhh, well done, General Prettyface!” Ian narrowed his eyes.

  Scamantha.

  She strolled out from behind a tall boulder like she was arriving for tea; her cloak fluttering behind her and at least seven potion bottles clinking at her hip. Her grin was wide, too white, and entirely undeserved.

  “You’ve made it so far! Tell you what, special deal, just for you: Anti-wall potion package. Half off! Includes minor fire resistance, speed buff, and a generic bravery tincture. Limited-time offer. I do take bribes—err, barter.”

  Ian stared, dumbfounded. “Are you serious?”

  She blinked innocently. “Deadly.”

  “No.”

  “Oh well,” she sighed, “your funeral. Literally!”

  Ian charged.

  She yelped, darting back, tossing a bottle behind her that exploded in a puff of glittering smoke. “What the—?” Ian coughed, swinging wildly through the weird mist.

  “Visibility disruption! Not guaranteed to work on smarter targets!” Scamantha yelped, already scrambling behind another rock.

  Ian burst through the fog, blade raised, fury pulsing in his jaw. “You think this is a game?”

  “Y-yes?” she offered, parrying one swing with a short dagger, barely. “And honestly, not my best one! I had a full fake merchant stand planned with brochures!”

  He pressed her hard, blow after blow. She dodged most, barely deflecting the rest, her footwork frantic, desperate. Her cheeky grin wavered under the weight of real steel.

  Finally, Ian landed a clean slash across her side.

  She gasped, then smiled through the blood. “I’m not a fighter,” she admitted. “Never was.” Another swing. She staggered. “But I don’t have to be.”

  Her knees hit the dirt.

  “I just had to hold you…”

  Another blade sank into her chest.

  “…long enough.”

  She grinned as the light faded from her eyes. Ian stood over her, chest heaving, sword slick with blood.

  Finally. It was over.

  Then the horn sounded, sharp and long, from the next hill. His head snapped up. “You’ll pay for that!” a furious voice shrieked across the field.

  He blinked.

  At the crest of the ridge stood a small girl in an oversized, mismatched jacket, patches on the elbows, sleeves flopping past her hands. She spun on her heel, pointing dramatically as she barked orders to the troops forming behind her.

  A sock, a literal sock, was sewn to the back of her coat, flapping like a limp banner in the wind. Ian’s mouth opened. “Was that Scamantha’s potion some kind of… hallucino—?”

  He never finished the thought.

  The enemy charged.

  Steel glinted. Spells flared. And that sock flapped like the herald of death itself.

  Ian raised his sword again, eyes wide. “Prepare for battle!” he yelled, voice cracking with desperation.

  And the hill erupted into war.